Bad Dreams
by lazarushearts
Summary: After the almost fatal encounter with the Kanima in the pool, Stiles is kept up at night with bad dreams of a dangerous sort. Derek knows something is up. One dreams of water, the other of fire. Are these two prepared to finally escape the recurring nightmares by admitting the truth to themselves? Sterek.
1. Water

Stiles awoke with a start.

He gasped for breath, tongue sandpaper dry, his chest shuddering as though crushed by an enormous oppressive weight. The sheets were thrown around him, spilling on to the floor and for a moment, despite the dense silence of his room, he could hear the frantic roar of water, filling his ears and clouding his thoughts. It took a moment to remember where he was, in the damp warmth of his bedsheets. He had left his lamp on absently and chemistry books were scattered over his desk, their pages stained with blocks of fluorescent yellow. A clock ticked quietly on the wall.

In his dream, Stiles was drowning. His throat and nose burned from the chlorine. His eyes were open, and the rippling water around him was tainted with tendrils of blood. Something heavy was weighing him down, clinging to him, crawling up his pant leg. He could hear Scott's voice, calling his name above the surface.

A shadow moved gradually across the edge of the water, shimmering and dark, until it hovered directly above him; he reached out, clasping fist fulls of water. The surface broke suddenly and a clawed hand grasped his wrist, poisonous talons tearing in to his skin. It was then he woke up, the scream dying on his tongue and bathed in a cold sweat.

He rubbed his face tiredly, fingers still trembling, as he groped blindly at the nightstand for his phone. The time read 3.04am.

"God," he groaned and tossed the cell phone down again, rolling over and pressing his cheek in to the damp pillow. It was cold with sweat and he shivered involuntarily, dark eyes widening in the gloom.

It had been two weeks since the night at the pool and from time to time he felt the dull tweak of exhaustion in his muscles. Not just in the physical sense, but the tugging, exasperating emotional drain. It had taken every inch of his sanity and well-being to supress his emotions, something he's had to do almost constantly the past few months and had grown quite talented in. But every so often cracks would appear, and Stiles found himself the subject of horrific nightmares, picturing his death, Scott, Lydia, even Derek's death a thousand times over.

He loathed to think about it, but the prospect of letting Derek drown hadn't even occurred to him that night, despite of how much - yes, he admitted it - the guy scared him. But who wouldn't be scared of a guy like that, one with so many crosses to bear and so much rage within him? He had worse anger management issues than Bruce Banner.

And yet.. when Stiles had desperately clutched at him, treading water tirelessly to keep them afloat, the animosity had drained from those wild, ferocious eyes and Stiles caught a glimpse of something lonely, and not all too unfamiliar to him. A loneliness so raw and so deep that it set Stiles' teeth on edge, and made him hold Derek tighter. Exhaustion brought out a tender weakness to him that Stiles, bafflingly, had found almost.. sweet. Since then however, Derek had been his usual shadowy leather-clad self, and Stiles was still stewing in the fact he had yet another nightmare-inducing bonding session to add the list. Maybe he should've cut off his arm whilst he had the chance.

He jumped as he heard a tired grunt in the hallway. The bar of light beneath his door flickered with a shadow.

"D-Dad..?" he croaked, propping himself up on his elbows.

After a moment's hesitation - and a faint grumbling - the door swung open, and there stood Beacon Hills' sheriff in stained and faded sweat pants, holding a glass of water in one hand and the TV remote in the other. The faint scent of whiskey told Stiles his dad was pulling another late night. Even though it was difficult to see with the glare of the hall light, Stiles could tell his father was smiling from the tone of his voice, and the tenacious thudding of his heart settled somewhat.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" his gruff voice was so comforting Stiles felt the well of tears in his throat, but cleared it quickly. The last thing he needed was to start blubbering in front of his dad.

"No, it's okay. I.. I was just thinking."

Sheriff Stilinski checked his watch with an ominous expression.

"At 3am?"

"Well, you know, gotta keep the mind sharp. Teenage brains are attacked from all sides these days, what with social media and increasing pressure to excel academically. Not to mention-"

"Alright, alright. I get it, smart-ass," his father paused, transferring his glass of water to his other hand and simultaneously shifting from foot to foot. Stiles recognized this as a nervous habit - or a dance, as he liked to think - that his father only did when two things were on his mind. And he wasn't sure his dad paced the floor at 3am thinking about football.

"You didn't.. have another nightmare about your mom, did you?" Sheriff Stilinski's tone was soft but inquisitive as he stood in the threshold of Stiles' room. He tentatively placed a hand on the door frame.

Stiles sighed and looked away.

"No," he said after a while. "I haven't had one of those since I was a kid, dad."

Stiles remembered those particular nightmares well.

"You're still a kid to me," his father replied. "No matter how many times I have to drag you from a crime scene."

"Dad-"

"Or how many parking tickets you get driving around in that health and safety violation on wheels."

"Dad-"

"I'm just _saying_! It's a bad habit of yours."

"No, Dad, I don't mean- it- it's fine. You don't have to worry about it," Stiles attempted to smile. "I'm fine."

"If you say so," he pointed at him. "But as your father, it's not only my duty, but my right to worry about you. Now get some sleep."

Stiles grunted and turned over, pulling the sheets up over his thin body. He murmured goodnight as his father shut his bedroom door and listened as the padded footsteps moved along the hall. His heartbeat had calmed to a soothing repetitive thud and he gradually began to relax, his eyelids becoming heavy, the darkness spreading over him. For an instant before he dropped in to a cool and dreamless sleep, he pictured his mother, and for some reason, simultaneously remembered the look of sheer need in Derek's face, until the two thoughts were inextricably linked.

Somewhere, distantly, he heard the drip of water.


	2. Pressure

Having woken up late, almost hit a tree whilst attempting to brush his teeth and drive at the same time and just barely made it to homeroom before the bell, Stiles was feeling a little more flustered than usual this morning. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the biology room window and as his fingers worked over his bristled head, he remembered the reason he didn't grow his hair out was because the tousled locks completed his 'freshly rolled out of bed loser' look perfectly. Not like Scott, who never seem to brush his hair and yet looked perfect all the time. And Derek..

He shook his head firmly, knocking those thoughts out of his head. He felt vaguely pissed off at having no other male friends - did he consider Derek a friend?_ God_, no - to compare himself to. He was tentatively touching the dark bags beneath his eyes when Scott's profile appeared behind him. He wondered if all werewolves had the ability to materialize out of thin air.

Scott clapped a hand gently on Stiles' back.

"Dude, you look terrible."

"I see you've been brushing up on your social skills," he muttered, sighing and planting his head down on the desk. Scott smirked and took a seat beside him as class begun.

"Did you get any sleep at all last night?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Stiles asked as he peeked out of one eye. Scott shrugged awkwardly. "Didn't you have a date with Allison?"

"Sure, but-"

"No, really, go in to vivid details. If I'm forced to live vicariously through you, then you have to-"

Scott stiffened and kicked Stiles underneath his desk as Allison entered the room. Stiles abruptly shut his trap and sank back in to his seat, trying to ignore the puppy-dog stare Scott was bestowing upon her. The forbidden lovers. Although he was happy for Scott, Stiles still couldn't help the stab of jealousy each time he noticed a fresh love-bite on his neck or a note secretly slipped in to his locker. The closest thing he had ever come to a love-bite was Derek offering to rip his throat out.

"...see Derek."

Stiles jerked, his eyes widening slightly. Scott was half-turned in his chair, staring at his best friend wearily.

"W-what?" Stiles' skin prickled with embarrassment. He'd never read about werewolves reading people's thoughts, but considering how often he was proved wrong by elements of the supernatural, Stiles couldn't be too sure.

"I said I arranged to meet Derek after school."

"Oh, right," Stiles blinked. "Wait, what? Why the hell do you want to meet with that psycho?"

"Well, if you had forgotten, there's a pack of Beta werewolves running around the school, just itching to blow their cover," Scott paused a moment and eyed his friend, noticing something was clearly on Stiles' mind. "You hadn't forgotten, had you?"

"No, no, it's just- look, if you want to see him, that's fine, but I'm not coming with you."

"And why not?" Scott looked at him blankly.

Of course someone like Scott wouldn't understand. The water didn't run deep with someone like him. Not like Stiles, who knew crushing pain and the lingering fear of death firsthand. The prospect of dying didn't seem to bother Scott on a daily basis, not in the way it rattled Stiles. Everywhere he turned, he could hear the splash of the water, the vague scent of chlorine, and the rasping of Derek's struggled breathing.

"Stiles!"

Stiles snapped back to attention.

"Yeah?"

"I'm asking you to come along, man. To tell you the truth, with that big weird lizard wandering around, I don't like the idea of you or Allison being alone."

Stiles felt disgusted at himself for feeling a wash of pride and love in his chest. He rolled his eyes, knowing perfectly well he was being manipulated by those chocolate puppy-dog eyes.

"Fine," he sighed. He stuck a pencil in his mouth and chewed irritably. "But you're buying me lunch."

Scott grinned and turned to face the blackboard, and for the rest of the period Stiles stared at the back of his head, his heart heavy with an unshakable sense of apprehension.

By six pm the school parking lot was more or less deserted, leaving only the teacher's cars, Stiles' jeep and the debris of browning leaves. It had already grown dark, with dusk fast approaching. Both Scott and Stiles were sitting in the jeep, Stiles with his hands resting on the steering wheel out of habit, and Scott in the backseat texting Allison on Stiles' phone. Stiles wished he could turn the radio on to drown out the repetitive tapping of buttons, but if he was honest with himself, he also wanted to drown out the little voice in his head that was telling him emphatically that this was a terrible idea.

What would he say to Derek when he saw him? He was too proud to mention that he'd spent the last two weeks sleep deprived because of the nightmares, or that every waking moment was spent thinking about Derek and wondering why now his heart didn't clench in fear at the idea of being close to him. Or why at night before he went to sleep, or in the shower, or in his car, his head that was usually filled with thoughts of flawless white skin and strawberry blonde hair, was instead clogged with visions of a muscular neck, piercing eyes and a hostile scowl?

Stiles was lost amongst his thoughts, staring absently out of the windshield. A light flickered on the dashboard, momentarily diverting his attention, and when he looked back that familiar profile was standing mere inches from his window, breathing opaque mist on the pane. Stiles jumped, mouthing a breathless 'oh my god' whilst the backseat springs creaked as Scott leaned forward. Stiles hastily rolled down the window, the colour drained from his face.

Derek arched one thick eyebrow, unamused.

"Derek, as always, it's horrifying to see you," Stiles muttered, still clenched.

Derek grunted noncommittally, his gaze already moving past him to Scott. Stiles felt the tug of irritation in his chest, but ignored it, testily squeezing the steering wheel.

Leaning over him, Scott exchanged fierce words with Derek, making a weak attempt in persuading him. From his close proximity, Stiles could see the hairs raise on Scott's neck, and tried to look away; but each direction his eyes turned, they always lead back to the dark shadow of a man, nonchalantly leaning against the hood of his car. Stiles, as usual, was excluded from the conversation, assigned to his role as human sidekick.

"Look, if you two want to slug it out, could you do it away from the jeep? This car falls apart at the slightest breeze."

Stiles frowned, sore at being ignored by both parties. He glanced up sullenly and froze. His heart sputtered in his chest. Beside him, Scott was still ranting about the dangers of allowing immature werewolves to wander about in school - Stiles had already tuned out to the sound of his voice - but Derek wasn't looking at him anymore. He was looking at Stiles. Looking through him. Those eyes blazed in the gloom, piercing blue orbs that flickered and trembled like the most tenacious of flames. Stiles lips parted and an involuntary gasp left him. That gaze positively stopped his heart.

In that moment, he knew Derek recognized the itching fear in his face, different from the indignant expression he always wore. Could he tell so easily that Stiles couldn't bear to even to look him in the eye? Was he angry? Could he _smell_ it on him? Stiles trembled in horror.

"Stiles?" Scott was staring at him, tan skin illuminated by the blinking lights of the dashboard. Stiles clenched his jaw and abruptly opened the car door.

He stumbled out, leaves flinging up from his clumsy feet. Derek made no indication of movement but watched him stoically in intense silence. Stiles' skin crawled.

"Stiles!" Scott called as the skinny body stumbled towards the gaps in the trees.

"I - I just need some air!"

He vanished, swallowed by the obscurity of the woods.

"Something's wrong," Derek murmured, his eyes fixated on a point in the distance, his keen reflexes lending an agile tautness to his stance. Scott stared at him as Derek strode off in the same direction, waving an arm wildly.

"What are you talking about? Derek! Where are you going? Hey! I'm coming with-"

Derek turned, struck Scott with the similar stubborn, intent stare.

"Stay there. I'll get him."

Scott chose not to argue and sank back in to his seat. Even if Stiles called him out later, he'd made it pretty obvious he wanted to be alone. Something in the way Derek looked at him told him it was better to let him handle it.. whatever it was. Besides, Derek would protect him. Or so he'd like to think.

Scott sighed and settled in for a long wait.


	3. Heat

The setting sun broke over the dusting of clouds as Stiles stumbled and ducked, deeper in to the nest of woodland, already out of breath despite having just fled the empty parking lot. He felt the sting of frightened tears well in his eyes and his pulse heighten, the frantic rattling of his heart deafening in his eardrums. A thick, coiled tree root sprang from nowhere, catching his foot and before Stiles' thoughts could reconfigure he was sprawled face down on a carpet of brittle brown leaves, groaning.

"Is there a reason you're running away from me?" the voice that pierced him came mere metres away. Stiles tried to calculate the impossibility for Derek to have run after him and merely accepted it, not wanting to dwell on his creepy materializing act much further. Strong hands fell pray to Stiles' bony shoulders and he was hoisted back on to his feet.

Stiles squirmed, batting off Derek's hands. Each absent touch repulsed him, scored in to his skin fresh memories of drowning. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. Derek stood his ground, five feet away, hands nonchalantly sat in his pockets.

"Is this funny to you?" Stiles barked, his voice raspy and out of kilter. Derek's expression was impassive, his sharp eyes, like shards of glass, glittered with apathy.

"I don't see what your problem is."

"You're lying, Derek. You know what's wrong," Stiles rasped. "We almost died in that pool. Are you honestly saying that doesn't bother you?"

"Stiles, our lives are in danger every day. Do you really expect me to care about one single instance, when there are hunters and murderous creatures out there?"

Derek's tone was sharp, decisive, much like the mood of his eyes.

"I mean, it was a close call, but-" he began.

Derek hesitated. He shifted his weight the other foot, his leather jacket rippling over his shoulders. Stiles stared at him, throat thick and sore with containing himself. It was always about putting himself last, quashing his emotions for Scott's sake, for his father's sake, and meeting that arrogant stare made him curdle with rage.

"-luckily you were there to help me out with that one."

Stiles was too angry to see the subtle change in Derek's demeanor, the way his face caught the last dying dregs of sunlight through the breaks in the streets, or how his features were pulled taut in tentative confusion and doubt.

"You're unbelievable! You don't care about anybody but yourself anyway!" Stiles made emphatic gestures with his hands. "You put Erica, Issac and Boyd in danger just to make yourself feel better. It doesn't _work_ that way!"

Derek frowned, his hands tensing at his sides. Stiles has no idea how pure he is.

"What do you want from me, Stiles?" he muttered, perturbed

"_I want you out of my head_!"

Stiles' voice echoed across the clearing, strained and wavering but undermined with a fierce desperation. He paced the ground, leaves crumbling beneath the worn soles of his shoes as it was Derek's turn to stare, his lips slightly parted, his eyes translucently veiling the conflict of emotion those words inspired. He was surprised, shocked, even, to find the hairs on his neck raised and gooseflesh seized his arms. He was stirred by them.

The nape of Stiles' clenched with the heat of embarrassment, as neither party dare say a word, the confession lingering between them and the vast, dormant woods like a bad smell. Stiles sighed and rubbed his face tiredly, his fingers groping his temples.

"I keep having these nightmares where we're dying, and I can't stand it any more," Stiles' voice caught in his throat, a voice so typically heavy with sarcasm hitched with tears. His walls were shaken, and Stiles found it increasingly difficult to keep them from dissolving completely under that intent stare.

As though for the first time, Derek truly looked at him. No longer did he see a runty kid, stringy and irritating, a lesser extension of Scott; a sidekick. He didn't see a constantly agitated young man possibly addicted to Adderall, or a high school delinquent, regarded by most of the student body, not to mention the townsfolk, as a loser and a nuisance.

Derek looked in to Stiles' face and saw himself. A boy broken by circumstances he had no control over, tainted by the past. The mere thought of death clouded Stiles' eyes in a way Derek so vividly remembered, a fresh pang of pain shot through his old wounds. He saw the raw loneliness of some fragile creature who masked his weakness with intelligence, the only defence he had. Stiles was just like he was, lost, angry and confused, and worst of all, completely helpless.

And all of a sudden, Derek was touched by the overwhelming urge to crush the sorrow out of him, bite those boyish, pert lips and savour him like a long, satisfying drink. He saw those deep, myopic eyes glisten and well with the threat of tears, long lashes damp with moisture, and inside his broad chest his heart shuddered and clenched as though an icy fist had squeezed it. He felt a little nauseous. The last time he had felt such hunger, it had ended in ashes.

"Do you really think you're the only one who has bad dreams, Stiles?"

Stiles looked up jerkily, doe-eyed and staring quizzically at his tormentor. He found it difficult to stare directly at him, like peering in to the sun, but his curiosity - as it always did - got the better of him. He took a step back.

"W-what?"

"My family was destroyed. All of them," Derek's tone was softer, his voice gentle but sinister, like the romantic croon of a predator. "Do you know what that _does_ to a person? How it eats them up inside?"

"Derek-"

The tall, dark wolf came forward, feet soundless on the blanket of leaves, the tread light but agile. Stiles backed up, clumsily knocking soft piles of leaves left and right with his skittering steps, until his spine met with the dewy bark of an adjacent tree. His heartbeat drummed in his ears.

"I see them. Every time I close my eyes," Derek murmured. His lip curled, only feet away from Stiles now, and advancing ever closer.

"If there's one thing I learned, Stiles, it's that you can't save anyone. Ever."

"That's.." Stiles' train of thought was abruptly halted. "That's bullshit."

It took every ounce of strength Stiles had left to lift his head, throw back his slender shoulders and stare in to those blazing eyes. His stomach was wrought with butterflies and his skin was mottled with a fresh cold sweat, but he stood his ground.

"That's bullshit," Stiles repeated, licking his lips and choosing his words delicately. "Because if someone like me can save you, then anything is possible."

Stiles briefly closed his eyes as he collided with the tree once more. Pain shot through him as he found his body pinned with an enormous weight. His eyelids reluctantly drew open and found Derek's face looming over him, in such close proximity that he could see the clench of his jaw, the prickle of hairs on his neck, the heat of his breath on Stiles' cheek. Derek's hand was planted in the centre of Stiles' chest, fingers fanned out between his pectorals and a shudder ran through him as the hand shifted, moving up and raising the hem of his T-shirt.

Stiles' breath sputtered as he looked up in to Derek's eyes, orbs of molten blue, boring in to his. Stiles' Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, unnerved by his expression. No anger or intimidation lingered in his gaze, although the intensity stirred some dark, lonesome place within Stiles, a place that was being crushed by the intrusion of Derek's firm thigh. The background seemed to dip and wink out of existence completely, leaving just the two of them, staring, bewildered, in to each other's faces. _Like a dream_, Stiles thought absently.

"Are you afraid of me?" Derek murmured.

Stiles hesitated. He could barely hear him over the hysterical rattle of his heart. Derek's heat was unlike anything Stiles had ever experienced. It radiated from his core, like an animal, and the fierce scent he gave off, pungent but beautiful, like the cloy of funeral lillies, lulled Stiles entirely. Although their hard bodies were pressed together, he felt overwhelmed by the depth of need in the gentleness of his touch, just like he had at the night at the pool and in his dreams. The corners of his mouth twitched in a smile despite himself.

"Of course I am," he breathed. "Everybody's afraid of the big bad wolf."

His heart calmed. The heat was burning him, scorching his flesh, but he didn't mind.

It was like the relief of cool water as their arms wrapped around each other and their mouths and tongues met, clinging on to one another in the fast approaching darkness.


	4. Once Bitten

Days passed without Stiles' notice. Since his world had been tilted violently on its axis for that one, brief moment in the woods some nights ago, the following days had been listlessly boring to restore the balance of normality. Scott had questioned him the next day at school why he had been so heartlessly ditched, and Stiles had conjured up a thinly veiled lie that apparently cured Scott's burning interest for the time being. If Scott had seen the scatter of budding bruises on his collarbone, however, perhaps his curiosity would not have been so adequately satiated. Each time Stiles saw the lurid bites in the mirror while changing his heart gave a light, tense shudder.

Stiles was glad of one thing, though. If Scott knew that Stiles had run in to the woods with Derek stalking after him - the thought prickled the hairs on his forearms - then perhaps it hadn't been a dream, which is what he had been wondering. After all, he had dreamt wilder things. And then he could put it down to simple adolescent biology, rather than the worrying truth he knew was dwelling somewhere inside him, tainted with the reminder of Derek's body heat. It drove him crazy.

After Stiles had staggered home, veins laced with a swooning adrenaline, he found his father asleep on the table, a spread of official police paperwork fanned out beneath him. He was snoring quietly, a glass clutched weakly in his hand, half-filled with pungent amber liquid. Even in his flustered state Stiles removed the glass from his hand and threw a blanket over the man's shoulders. He downed the whiskey, wincing and clambered to his room where he collapsed in to bed, still fully clothed. The window framed an opaque square of night outside and for a fleeting moment before he gave in to his exhaustion, he conjured Derek's face shimmering beyond the glass, a moonlit beacon in the darkness. His slumber had been heavy and dreamless and damp.

Stiles hadn't seen Derek since. He had trudged the school hallways with an ear half-cocked, paid closer attention to the woods whilst driving, even listened to Scott's werewolf ramblings, but to no avail. Not even a hair or whisker; he had perfected his vanishing act. Stiles couldn't help but feel a little hurt. The way Derek had touched him, albeit quickly and discreetly, had left him aching, and not just where Derek's teeth had been.

It was like Derek had won the battle, and Stiles was determined to win the war.

This evening Stiles was pouring absently over his social sciences textbooks, scratching his neck with the eraser of his pencil. His father was working late again. He had turned all the lights in his room off save his desk lamp and the rectangle of blue emanating from his laptop. The dull scratching of the pencil and his iTunes playlists playing repetitively on low volume were barely keeping him awake and before he even knew it, Stiles had slipped in to a dream he had not had in years.

He was younger, awkward and short, his skinny knees constantly grazed, his hands always sticky. He was at the police station, and everything was brilliantly lit in golden hues which calmed him. His father disliked how hyperactive the boy always was. He was sat in his father's office, swinging his legs and listening to a conversation in the hallway. His father's voice seeped through the walls. He sounded quiet and deeply unhappy. Stiles clambered down from his seat and crept to the door, peering out into the hallway. It was empty aside from his father and a smaller person sat with their head in their hands. Stiles squinted.

His father reached out a hand and placed it gently on the person's shoulder. They didn't react. The person was bigger than Stiles, but their clothes and face were marred with black marks. Hunched over in the chair, they looked grotesque, a figure composed entirely of shadows which shuddered and jumped and moaned. Stiles felt his heart hitch in terror. He heard a swish of a skirt behind him and looked up. His mother stood over him, her brow creased in worry. Despite that, she was beautiful. Radiantly so. She slipped her hand inside his, smelling powdery and clean and safe. He clutched at her.

"Don't stare, sweetheart," she murmured. At that moment, the black hands slid away from the monster's face, and a pair of crystal clear eyes emerged from the filth. Stiles couldn't help but stare. They were the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. They the steely blue of an approaching storm cloud, the bright azure of a blue flame, and captured the light in a way that refracted it, made them shine wildly like dying stars. His mother took his hand and led him past that gaze Stiles could not tear himself away from, the stare that pierced him so, implored him, immersed him. He outstretched a hand toward the figure but his father was leading them away, a hand on their shoulder, quietly in hushed tones of a terrible, terrible fire.

Stiles awoke groggily with a crick in his neck to a faint tapping at the window. It took him a few moments to register where he was, removing a page stuck to his cheek. His head ached and the vague scratching at the window became more and more insistent.

Groaning, he lurched from his chair, half-asleep still, and smacked his hand against the window pane to silence whatever was making the irritating sound. Stiles got the shock of his life when his eyelids fluttered open to find Derek crouched patiently beside it, hanging on to the window sil with his fingernails. Stiles scrabbled to open the window, clumsily thumbing the latch, his heart jerkily pounding.

"Are you trying to kill me?!" Stiles hissed once the window had been hauled up, his bony hands trembling. His heart was constantly, precariously throbbing whenever Derek was around.

"Not particularly," Derek replied without much conviction.

Stiles sighed and rolled his dark eyes wordlessly. He took a step back, expecting Derek to aggressively brush past and was faintly surprised to see Derek didn't intrude. He remained on his haunches, staring broodingly through the open window.

"I thought it was only vampires who had to be invited in," Stiles murmured.

"I didn't know how you would react if I came to the door," Derek muttered. "Or if your father was around."

"He's not," Stiles said quickly, and then turned his head, hiding the embarrassment in his face. Sheriff Stilinski was having a well deserved night off at the bar with a couple buddies, and wouldn't be home until the early hours, or so the note he had left on the fridge had said.

Derek frowned, rose and maneuvered his body in, one long leg slipping in after the other. Stiles noticed the effortless grace to his movements, the way Derek's clothes clung and sat on his body in all the right places and felt a prickle on the nape of his neck. His mouth was dry. For a moment Derek stood awkwardly aloof, glancing disinterestedly around Stiles' room, while Stiles was furiously trying to shake the memory of Derek topless and trying on his clothes in the very same spot.

"You know why I'm here," said Derek.

Stiles jumped. In the time he had been inadvertently picturing Derek naked, the real thing had moved closer toward him. He swallowed, trying desperately to keep his voice from shaking.

"I do?"

Derek looked down briefly. "I wanted to apologise for the other night. I lost control. I wasn't expecting you to admit your feelings like that."

Stiles blinked. Derek's expression was sober and sincere. He almost cracked a smile out of disbelief.

"My_ what_?!" he asked incredulously.

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?" Derek lifted one thick brow.

"Hold on, wolf boy, I never said anything about feelings for you. _You_ kissed _me_."

"And you kissed me back," Derek retorted.

"What exactly was I supposed to do?! You were right there with those eyes and your jawline and I was powerless to defend myself! It was some weird lycanthropy spell, I know it."

Derek was reaching toward him and Stiles batted his hand away fiercely. One again Derek had backed him against the wall, and Stiles was beginning to see the hazy edges of panic in his peripherals. He glanced at his desk where his cellphone sat, wondering if he could somehow make a break for it and call for help. A startling breeze whipped at his curtains and startled him. Once his gaze focused, he was peering in to Derek's stormy glower.

"Stiles-"

"I'm sure there's a lot of people who can't resist you, Derek, but I'm not one of them and if you even _think_-"

"_Stiles_-"

"-that I'm going to let you push me around you've got another thing-"

Strong hands clasped Stiles on either side of his face, tilting his face abruptly upward; his lips were crushed by a hard, hot weight and a burst of colour momentarily blinded him. Derek's fingers were stroking his neck and the hallows of his cheekbones, belt buckle clinking against his own. Stiles hands hovered, fingers splayed before they hesitantly cupped Derek's broad back, fingers worming in to his jacket, clutching on for dear life.

Derek seized him in his arms, gathering him up in a tight bundle and embracing they fell on to Stiles' pristine made bed. Derek's hands found the hem of his t-shirt and ripped it up over his head, his smooth, toned flesh glistening in the obscurity. Stiles' mouth was raw and tender from Derek's languid kiss, the iron taste of foamy blood in his mouth where his bottom lip trickled with a slight tear. His heart beat fit to explode. Derek peered down at him, one hand working to unfasten Stiles' belt, and extended a palm toward Stiles' face. He flinched, weakly.

"What's wrong?" Derek murmured, his voice low and resonating deep in Stiles' skull.

Everything shimmered and curved, winking out of existence. He concentrated on Derek's hands, slender and dexterous, his bite ferocious but his touch tender.

"You know what they say," Stiles managed, his throat catching. "Once bitten, twice shy."

And like that Stiles gave in, as easy as drowning, that blue, magnetic gaze binding their bodies in the dark.


End file.
